


Here We Go Again

by Mums_the_Word



Series: Strange Encounters [3]
Category: Chuck (TV), White Collar
Genre: A Carefully Orchestrated Death, Covert CIA Missions, Divided Loyalties, FBI Stings, Gen, Kate’s Death, Mistrust, Nazi Treasures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25608136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: Unbelievably, Neal finds himself back in prison after Kate’s life is snuffed out in a catastrophic explosion. Life can’t seem to get any worse for our poor hero, but, unfortunately it does when John Casey materializes in Sing Sing as a newly incarcerated inmate. Instead of feeling threatened by his old nemesis, Neal feels blindsided when Casey reveals that his mission is to recruit him for the CIA. This fiction relies heavily on White Collar canon and begins with Season 2, Episode 1 of that series.
Relationships: Chuck Bartowski & Neal Caffrey, Neal Caffrey & John Casey, Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Series: Strange Encounters [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831561
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	1. A Modest Proposal (Jonathan Swift)

**Author's Note:**

> A shout out to a very patient Treon who read and reread all the following chapters to point out the plot holes. Thank you, my good friend.

Neal feels numb—not scared or angry or vengeful—just completely numb as if his brain can’t process what his eyes saw on the Teterboro tarmac. Kate was gone, and it wasn’t a dream. Instead, it was a very real nightmare. Perhaps our poor Neal would have become the target of some very nasty criminals who took exception to the fact that he had crossed over to the dark side and had been working for the Feds as a confidential informant for over a year. That merited some harsh prison-type justice because of a criminal code with rather twisted ethics. However, even the worst of the brutal fraternity incarcerated within the prison walls kept their distance because Neal was acting strangely. It was like he was a holograph with very little substance, never displaying any hint of emotion. He should have been scared out of his mind, but, instead, he shuffled along as if he was in his own fog of obscurity. That was perplexing to the shadows who kept an eye on him. They had seen this strange phenomenon before. Weirded out psychos like serial killers or demented sociopaths walked around in a sort of calm stasis until a switch was flipped in their brain and they went batshit crazy and wreaked their own havoc. Maybe it was better to tread lightly for a bit until they figured him out.

Neal was aware of what went on around him even if he didn’t show it. The reason for his apathy was that, at this point in time, he really didn’t care what happened to him or anybody else. Screw the FBI and their ridiculous “Mentor” project. Screw Garrett Fowler and even Peter Burke. Neal was so done with being a stooge manipulated by evil people with an agenda. If he died tomorrow, it would put an end to his torment. So, when he caught sight of John Casey in the cafeteria line, he couldn’t summon any fearful curiosity. It was what it was, or whatever it turned out to be. Even when Casey somehow managed to saunter into Neal’s cell late that night like Marley’s ghost after the mandated lights out, Neal didn’t get nervous. He merely asked in a calm voice, “I guess you’re here to take care of unfinished business.”

Casey snorted, “I’m actually here on some new business, Caffrey.”

“Does that include strangling me with those big mitts of yours,” Neal snarked. “Just so you know, I don’t really care; I’m just asking for a friend.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Casey snarled. “I’ve been embedded into this hell hole because I’m on a mission.”

“Really? Do tell,” Neal mocked.

Casey heaved a sigh. “As much as it pains me to say it, I’m here to recruit you.”

“Recruit me?” Neal thought he had heard wrong.

“Yeah, Moron, the CIA wants you as an operative,” the big man growled, “and I’m here to persuade you that it’s in your best interest to be receptive to the idea.”

“Why do the creepy spooks you work for want me when they already have a replica of yours truly in the form of Bryce Larkin,” Neal asked wearily.

“Bryce Larkin is dead,” Casey said flatly.

Neal jerked his head up in shock. “Did you kill him?”

“Don’t act stupid, Caffrey,” Casey said sarcastically. “Larkin got himself dead at the hands of an evil cabal that wants to take over the world. Its members are in deep cover lurking within the ranks of our own government.”

“Well, color me surprised that the government is twisted. I’ve had firsthand experience with their treachery—even got the orange jumpsuit and matching t-shirt to prove it,” Neal replied in a bitter tone. Although he didn’t let Casey see it, the news of Bryce Larkin’s death had shaken the con man more than he was willing to admit. It was like a part of himself had died as well.

Casey eyed the young prisoner. “Look, Dude, I’ve been briefed on your situation. I know what was promised to you and I know what actually happened. With the CIA’s assistance, we can help you find justice for your girlfriend’s murder,” the NSA agent dangled the bait.

“I’m picturing that scenario to be a lot like that old movie, _Mighty Joe Young versus Godzilla,_ ” Neal sniped. “The DOJ versus the CIA—two behemoth monsters going at it to prove their superiority. Do you really think I want to be collateral damage in that dust-up?”

For once, Casey seemed to get to the heart of a situation. “Look, Caffrey, I’ve been where you are right now. Not many people know this, so count yourself lucky. I lost a woman—my woman—whom I deeply loved when a hotel in Europe was bombed by terror mongers who made her a victim. It rips your heart out, but eventually you get on with things, specifically, things like finding the people responsible. I can help you with that.”

“I know the lynchpin is a man named Garrett Fowler, and confronting him may be a bit hard to do from where I’m presently sitting,” Neal retorted.

Casey finally stopped looming and sat down beside Neal on his bunk. “The Agency’s plugged in, so we know Peter Burke has been calling in favors all over the place to get you back as his CI. So far, he’s hitting a brick wall with the Department of Justice, but we can grease the wheels so that it happens. And as for OPR Agent Fowler, don’t waste your time with that clown. He was just being manipulated like you. He’s not the real puppet master working behind the scenes.”

“If not him, then tell me who is!” Neal demanded as he crowded Casey’s space.

The big spy shrugged. “Not sure yet, but we’re working on it because we suspect it’s part of a bigger picture. And if you want to be part of the team to take down Kate Moreau’s murderer, then you’ll have to get on board.”

“This whole magnanimous offer makes no sense to me,” Neal finally admitted. “Doesn’t your little band of mischief makers have your playhouse out in California? How are you going to get me paroled out of state?”

Casey rolled his eyes. “Think bigger picture, Doofus! We have centers of operation in every major United States city, and the entire world is our playing field. Nevertheless, even though you’re going to be a bit hobbled, you can still accomplish a lot for us right here in the Big Apple.”

Neal narrowed his eyes. “If I do this, will Peter Burke be made aware of my divided loyalties?” he wanted clarification.

“It’s on a need to know basis, and your FBI handler doesn’t need to know,” Casey answered smugly.

“I seem to have heard that hogwash a number of times in my past dealings with you spy people,” Neal replied cynically. “Just out of idle curiosity, if I agree, how are you planning on keeping tabs on me? Do you plan to piggyback onto the Marshals feed of my anklet tracker?”

“That tech stuff falls into your old pal, Chuck’s, domain. I’m sure he’ll come up with some clever way to hack it,” Neal’s recruiter shrugged. “Look, Buddy, I’ve got to get back to my little cubby hole to get some shut eye. A few menacing thugs decked out with tattoos were eyeballing me today just itching for the opportunity to put me in my place in this prison’s pecking order. I have to be ready to break a few heads tomorrow.”

“Maybe you could bond with them while you’re admiring each other’s ink,” Neal smirked. “I’m sure you’ve got an American flag tattooed somewhere on your body.”

“Actually, it’s _Semper Fidelis_ on my delt, Numbnuts. And, just so you know, my rank is now a colonel in the Marine Corps,” Casey said proudly.

“Wow! A man who can multitask,” Neal snickered. “Although I’m awed to be in your company, I still need some things made a little clearer,” the sardonic con man said firmly. “First, with Bryce gone, did Chuck finally get the girl?”

Casey had stood and was moving towards the corridor when Neal’s words stopped him. “Not that I can see. Walker seems a little fickle to me. Now she seems bedazzled by another pretty boy agent named Daniel Shaw. Personally, I don’t trust him, but that’s just my take on the situation.”

Neal was thoughtful, wondering just how perceptive John Casey might be. Neal wasn’t sold on working with Bryce’s old girlfriend. And he definitely didn’t want to play “Dear Abby” to Chuck, dispensing advice on how to win the girl. Actually, Neal wasn’t sure who he would be working with if he agreed to become a spy. “Are you going to be my handler, Casey, because if you are, I’m not sure how secure that makes me feel.”

“We haven’t clarified all the boots on the ground arrangements yet,” Casey admitted. “You’re the wild card until you get your pretty ass off the fence.”

Neal was still turning this offer over in his mind. If he did decide to do this thing with the CIA, he would have some freedom to find Kate’s killer, with or without their help. It was a better option than sitting here waiting for some inmates with a grudge to come at him with a shiv. But, if he did go for broke and crawled out on this limb, then there had to be ground rules starting right now. He stood up and got squarely in Casey’s face. “If I agree to this ridiculous travesty, you’ll need to remember that I am not patient and forgiving like Chuck. I insist that you never again address me in a snide, deprecating manner. I’m not tolerant of bullying by you or anyone else.”

“Those are tough words for someone in your situation,” Casey mocked before relenting, “but I guess I can respect someone with brass balls. We’ll talk again tomorrow after I teach a few yahoos a lesson before breakfast.” Then the big guy slowly meandered away as the door to Neal’s cell magically slid shut with a clang.

~~~~~~~~~~

It seemed like some kind of magic trick as well when, without explanation, Neal was back on the streets at Peter’s side with a new anklet in place. Peter seemed a bit uncomfortable at first, not quite sure if he should display sympathy for his friend’s tragic loss, or gruffly demand that his CI cowboy up. So, their relationship vacillated with Peter treating Neal like he was made out of fragile glass, and then acting like the past month had never happened. Neal just endured the emotional roller coaster, and with Mozzie’s help, began his own investigation into Kate’s death. He had to juggle that task with a new one. Casey had come calling on the second night that Neal had returned to June’s home. The formidable NSA agent strolled in with a confident air and a Chromebook in his hand that he unceremoniously plunked down on Neal’s dining table.

“What?” Neal mocked. “This is what I get with my membership into the good old boys club? I was expecting at least a spy decoder ring.”

“If you’re good, I might teach you our secret handshake,” Casey huffed. “Now get serious, Caffrey, because I’m about to brief you on our organization’s hierarchy, and when you meet the boss lady, you’ll see she doesn’t tolerate insolence. This laptop is your gateway to liaison with the top of the heap. You’ll be running with the big dogs in the pack now, not just a wimpy geek like Chuck.”

Neal watched as Casey took a seat at the table and powered up the Chromebook. The screen held an array of the usual icons for email, weather, Word, and an extraneous one of an eagle with its wings spread wide. Casey then moved aside and gestured for Neal to take his seat in front of the electronic equipment. “Click on the eagle and enter this long series of letters and numbers,” he instructed as he handed Neal a slip of paper. “Memorize the password,” he told Neal gruffly, “and when the next screen opens, stare into the portal so that the camera can capture your retinal scan.”

“Oooh, so cloak and dagger,” Neal snarked, but did as he was instructed before glancing up at Casey. “If I accidently tell anybody the password, does that mean I have to kill them?”

“No, it means that you will be signing your own death warrant,” a stern voice was suddenly emanating from the laptop. Neal whipped his head around to see a small older woman scowling at him over her wirerimmed granny glasses. She was attired in a military uniform with the left side of her chest wallpapered with medals and insignias of various colors.

“General Beckman, the eagle has landed,” Casey said respectfully. “This is Neal Caffrey.”

The woman on the screen did not look impressed. “Colonel, that expression is generally taken to mean that a mission has been successfully accomplished. That remains to be seen with this one. He’ll have to prove himself before I place any confidence in him.”

“General, begging your pardon, but I can whip Caffrey into shape,” the NSA man said confidently.

Neal’s head was swiveling back and forth. “Um, my mama told me it was impolite to talk about a person when they’re right here in the same room. Maybe a little more decorum should be the order of the day. And just so you know, absolutely no whipping will be tolerated by this new probie agent!”

“Probie …” the General let the word slide slowly off her tongue. “Interesting choice of words, perhaps the result of the FBI’s influence. But I can assure you, Mr. Caffrey, you’re playing in the big leagues now, not like the Bureau which is hampered by the letter of the law as well as riddled with deceit.”

“Well, I won’t argue that point with you,” Neal conceded.

“Good, because it wouldn’t be in your best interest to argue anything with me. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” General Beckman demanded.

“Crystal,” Neal replied without the least bit of deference.

“Since you are a new recruit, normally you’d be sent to our training facility in Prague,” Beckman continued. “However, I’ve seen footage of you parkouring through buildings, ziplining across rivers, and daredevil base jumping into canyons, so perhaps any further training would be redundant.”

“You seem to be privy to a lot, so just how much do you know?” Neal asked with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, Mr. Caffrey, we’ve had eyes on you for a very long time,” the General said with a mysterious little smile.

“That’s beyond creepy,” Neal huffed. “So, then you also must know that I don’t like guns and I’m not going to be killing anybody for God and country during any secret mission.”

“You’ll have Casey for that,” Neal was blithely informed, causing the con man to staunch a shiver. “So, is this big ignoramus standing behind me going to be my CIA handler?”

The General nodded. “For the foreseeable future, yes. Sarah Walker is presently tied up in Europe, but Chuck Bartowski will be joining you after his flight touches down at JFK tomorrow. He can assist you in your first mission.”

“About my ‘mission,’ General,” Neal managed to get in a word. “My other legitimate handler already has me busy trying to take down a swaggering buffoon who robs banks just for the thrill of it. He’s been yanking Peter Burke’s chain, so it’s sort of a priority right now.”

The military woman frowned. “Unless I’ve been misinformed, Mr. Caffrey, you can certainly walk and chew gum at the same time. Now that we’ve established that you can multitask, we need you to gain entrance into a certain foreign consulate. That should feel like a bit of déjà vu for you. Didn’t you break into the Italian consulate just a few months ago to get your hands on an amber music box?”

“I guess you know that I did,” Neal conceded, realizing there was no point in denying it?

Beckman quirked an eyebrow and continued with the briefing. “Well, this time it’s a Latin American consulate. A despot from a puppet dictatorship is currently sitting at the United Nations spouting off rhetoric about instituting a form of democracy in his oppressed country. What he’s really doing in New York is meeting an arms dealer who will supply him with a means to keep his country under his thumb so no free elections can take place. We need to find out his supplier and interrupt the arms deal so that a peaceful transfer of power can commence.”

“I thought my missions were supposed to get me a bit closer to finding out a friend’s killer, not maintain the status quo in the world for the CIA’s benefit,” Neal replied boldly.

“That’s still a work in progress and shouldn’t be your prime focus right now,” Beckman said firmly. “Starting tonight and moving forward, you need to start impressing me with the assignments I give you. When you prove that you are a valuable asset, maybe then I’ll share other details.” Without warning, the General’s image flashed off the screen and was replaced by a picture of fluffy kittens playfully rolling a ball of yarn.

“She can be a real ballbuster,” Casey smirked.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Neal agreed.

Casey was preparing to make an exit when Peter Burke opened Neal’s door without knocking.


	2. Once More Into The Breach (Shakespeare)

It was like somebody had hit the pause button on a DVD player. Everybody froze for a few seconds until Peter finally stepped forward and gave John Casey a long stare. “I expected to see your little bald buddy, Neal, but it seems like you’ve made yourself a new friend,” Peter drawled.

“He was just leaving,” Neal quickly responded without making any introductions. Casey glared at the FBI agent, grunted once, and then lumbered out of the loft without a word.

“Instead of a pint-sized worrisome influence, now I find there is the gallon-size variety lurking around you,” Peter said slowly after the visitor’s abrupt exit.

“His name is John Casey,” Neal finally admitted, “and perhaps he’s a tad antisocial.”

“He looked shady to me, Buddy,” Neal’s FBI handler remarked. “You do know that your parole agreement expressly spells out that you can’t be in the company of other criminals.”

Neal shrugged. “Check him out, Peter. You won’t find anything on him.”

“Why was he here?” Neal’s handler kept pushing.

Neal crossed his arms over his chest and his face took on a stubborn look. “Listen, _Partner_ , if you’re going to continue hovering and micromanaging everything that I do, then we can’t accomplish anything. I’m not C3PO—the obedient cyborg in those _Star Wars_ movies who has to be programmed because he can’t think for himself.”

Peter took a breath and counted to ten. He knew it would be counterproductive to argue with his CI right now. Their bond was fragile after what had happened with Kate, and the two partners were skating on thin ice on so many levels. They were under intense scrutiny, and Peter would never forgive himself if Neal got sent back to prison yet again.

“Calm down and just listen,” he insisted. “Thanks to your breakthrough regarding obscure Russian painters, we now have our sights set on Edward Walker, a wealthy business tycoon. I’m thinking we should pay him a visit tomorrow and ask him nicely if he’s been leaving _‘The Architect’_ calling cards behind at the banks that he robs. Are you up for it?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Neal quickly replied.

“C’mon, Buddy, you’ve been a little unsteady since … well, you know,” Peter said lamely.

“I’ve been steady enough to get into a bank, pose as a new teller, and walk right into their cash cage and make off with a briefcase full of money right under their noses,” Neal retorted with a bit of an attitude. “Look, Peter, stop doubting me.”

The older man sighed. “There’s a lot riding on this, Neal. You have to prove yourself to people who are watching.”

“Tell me about it,” Neal answered drolly. So many people were watching everything he did these days.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, an FBI agent and his CI tried to rattle Edward Walker’s cage to no avail. The man was a pretentious and sarcastic opponent lobbing golf balls off the terrace of his penthouse. Neal gritted his teeth when the snide putdowns were directed at him. That afternoon, a text came in from Chuck. _“I’m finally here. Meet for lunch in Manhattan?”_

Neal quickly texted back. _“Not lunch. Still on FBI time so maybe tonight in my loft?”_

A smiley face emoji was the return response, so Neal’s lunch partner became Walker’s assistant. He surreptitiously borrowed her phone to obtain her boss’s calendar, presented his handler with the goods, and then called it a day as the FBI’s lackey.

That evening, there was a timid knock on his door and Neal wasn’t surprised to see Chuck standing on the threshold with a huge grin on his face. “Hey, Neal! It’s really fantastic to see you again, Buddy, and even greater that we’ll be working together as a team.”

“From what I was told, our team is more of a threesome,” Neal deadpanned.

Chuck grinned. “Yeah, Casey’s along for the ride. He’s my go-to guy when things get dicey, so he comes in handy from time to time. Just don’t tell him I said that because he has a big ego. Did you know that during our last op, the bad guys referred to him as the ‘Angel of Death?’ He was so proud he was popping buttons off his shirt, left and right.”

Neal grinned at this likeable, easy going guy. “Sorry I couldn’t meet with you sooner, my friend.”

“That’s okay,” Chuck insisted. “It gave me time to actually visit the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. Man, New York is so different from Burbank.” Then the tall young man paused before saying, “I’m really sorry, Neal, about your girlfriend.”

Neal smiled and busied himself fetching a bottle of wine and some glasses. “Let’s forget Casey and my troubles. Why don’t you fill me in on how you’ve been since the last time I saw you on a beach in Santa Monica.”

Chuck’s body seemed to deflate and melt into the sofa cushions. “Well, I took your advice, Neal. I just came right out and told Sarah I was in love with her. I may have even mentioned the word, ‘marriage,’ or something like that.”

“And how did that work out for you?” Neal prodded. “How did the lovely Sarah take this honest confession of pure adoration?”

Chuck grimaced. “Well, a whole lot better than I expected. She held my hand and looked at me and said, ‘Let’s do it. Let’s leave the spy life behind and live a life like real people.’ She got all excited about making plans with fake identities and false trails so no one could find us. She said it would take a little time for her to get things prepared, so we were supposed to meet at the Nadrazi train station in Prague after my spy training was over.”

“And?” Neal found himself intrigued.

Chuck looked down at his hands in his lap. “I stood her up, Neal. Well, not exactly—I showed up but I told her I couldn’t go through with it.”

“But why?” Neal asked in confusion. “Isn’t that the happy ending you wanted?”

“It’s hard to understand,” Chuck said softly.

“Try me,” Neal said just as quietly.

Chuck sighed. “Sarah Walker is a fantastic woman and a phenomenal spy, probably the best at the CIA. It defines who she is and has been for almost her whole life. She’s accustomed to working with other professional associates who are just as clever and good at their jobs. You met Bryce so you know what kind of competition I was facing. Regardless of my feelings for her, I just couldn’t understand how beautiful, exciting, and intriguing Sarah Walker could want to be tied to me, boring and nerdy Chuck Bartowski, for the rest of her life. I was afraid that down the road, she’d realize she’d settled for a dead-end type of life. How could she respect or be proud of someone like me who had flunked out of spy training? I’m very good at screwing up my own life; I certainly didn’t want to screw up hers, as well.”

“Flunked out of spy training,” Neal repeated with a puzzled expression on his face. “Beckman mentioned some kind of preparatory training, so is that like a spook military boot camp or something?”

Chuck grimaced. “Yeah, it’s a place with simulations of dangerous missions where you have to not only use your wits but also your athletic prowess to get you through the course before the enemy kills you. I’m no jock, so I froze and couldn’t flash when I was in a tough spot.”

_“Flash?”_ Neal was bewildered.

Chuck finally looked at Neal. “I guess nobody’s filled you in about my very arcane talent, but now that you’re a bona fide CIA agent, you should know all about certain stuff. I have some weird abilities, but they’re totally worthless if I can’t control the _Intersect_ and use it when necessary. What was supposed to be helpful has become an albatross around my neck,” the young man sighed pitifully.

_“Intersect?”_ Neal repeated the word. “I think I’m going to need more wine for this part of your story. Do you need more to tell it?”

“No, thanks, I’m a lightweight when it comes to alcohol,” Chuck said meekly, “and I’m going to need a clear head to relate this strange fairy tale.”

“Suit yourself,” Neal said as he refilled his glass and looked at Chuck expectantly.

“Well, I guess everything started with my Dad,” the reluctant young man began. “My sister and I lost our mother when we were quite young and our father just seemed like a regular guy, doing the best that he could to raise two little kids on his own. Maybe he seemed a bit lost in his own world, but we had no basis of comparison. Only later did I find out that he was a brilliant scientist working for the CIA and his code name was _Orion_. He literally spent years developing this program that he called the _Intersect_. In a nutshell, it was a collection of international espionage intel that included every evil menace under the sun. Dad actually disappeared when I was nine years old, and my older sister, Ellie, finished raising me. We thought our sole remaining parent had abandoned us, but only later did I find out that he went underground to protect us. Rumors about Dad’s creation had leaked out, so he distanced himself from his family to keep us safe.”

As Chuck paused and seemed to be lost in his reverie, Neal said softly, “My father left my Mom and me when I was three years old, so I know how it feels to think you’ve been abandoned.”

Chuck shrugged. “Maybe my Dad went about it the wrong way, but he didn’t know who he could trust. So, he went into hiding until his version of the Intersect was complete. Somehow, the evil guys in the scenario got their hands on it, but Bryce managed to break into their headquarters and download it just before he destroyed the actual mainframe. Casey thought Bryce was a rogue agent and a traitor, so he shot him, but not before Bryce emailed it to me.”

“If I remember correctly, you once said that Bryce was your college roommate, but he framed you for cheating and got you expelled from Stanford,” Neal remarked.

Chuck shrugged again, “Well, back in the day, the CIA clandestinely recruited bright bulbs right on college campuses. Although I wasn’t aware of it at the time, they wanted me, but Bryce knew my Dad and had promised him that he would protect me by keeping me out of the spy life. So, while I thought Bryce was ruining my life, my roommate was really keeping me away from something he didn’t think I could handle.”

“But in the end, he did send you this _Intersect_ thing?” Neal asked, just to be clear.

“Yeah, because he trusted me to keep it locked away in my brain and only use it for good, not evil,” Chuck explained.

“Now you’ve lost me again,” Neal said as he furrowed his brow.

“Bryce sent the program as an attachment to my email address,” Chuck explained patiently. “I wasn’t sure what it was, but it looked benign, so I opened it. Then there was an explosion of bright lights and a swirl of images flashing right before my eyes. What was actually happening was the Intersect program was downloading directly into my brain instead of my computer. I _became_ the Intersect, a walking, talking WMD that everybody wants in their arsenal because if I encounter some nefarious character, I have a flash—sort of like a visual epiphany about who they are and what they are mixed up in. That makes me invaluable to national security, so when the CIA tracked me down, they commandeered my life, and it’s been a hell of a scary ride ever since. Well, except for meeting Sarah, that is.”

“Does this Intersect thing account for what happened that time we were in Greece when you took out two sentries with your ninja moves?” Neal asked.

“Well, those physical skills came later after a new version, what I call the Intersect 2.0, was developed by the CIA and downloaded into my head,” Chuck explained. “But there’s a little glitch with that new program. I can’t just summon it up at will, no matter how hard I try. General Beckman was intending to fire me for being undependable. That was a real low point for me and that’s when I was willing to leave the spy life with Sarah.”

“So, what stopped you?” Neal asked gently.

Chuck looked into Neal’s eyes with his own tormented expression. “Don’t you get it, Neal? I didn’t want to be a failure in Sarah’s eyes. I wanted her to be proud of me. She was risking her life for this country every day, and I should have been doing my part, not balking at the starting gate. People were counting on me to fight the good fight, and, when the chips were down, I was a colossal train wreck.”

“But you’re here now, so you must have done something right,” Neal said softly.

Chuck sighed. “General Beckman claimed that I let my emotions take over the Intersect, and my feelings for Sarah were blocking the voluntary access to my skills. Maybe she was right. Now that Sarah is with somebody else, I can call up my flashes with just a bit of concentration.”

“So, you’re still under the government’s thumb and hating it,” the con man intoned in a serious voice.

“Pretty much,” Chuck agreed.

“I share your pain, Buddy,” Neal remarked as he lifted his pant leg and displayed his FBI tracker. “Now I’m serving two masters, it seems.”

“That’s a real bummer,” Chuck commiserated. “So tell me why you consented to be a CIA asset as well as working for the FBI?”

“To get out of prison to find the person responsible for killing my girlfriend,” was the decisive answer.

“Well, if I can help in any way, I will,” the nerd assured his friend.

“Thanks, Buddy, I may take you up on your offer at a later date,” Neal smiled. “But I guess right now, we need to put our heads together and come up with a plan for this consulate thing.”

“I’ve got the schematics of the building right here in my messenger bag,” Chuck said as he rose to retrieve them and then lay them flat on Neal’s dining table.

Neal grinned as he leaned over the diagrams. “Air conditioning ducts run through each floor, so there’s our way through the maze. Chuck, my friend, this is going to be a piece of cake!”


	3. "In like Flynn" (Errol Flynn)

Neal returned to his regular job at the FBI the next morning. Peter was still hot to trot to catch Edward Walker, and Walker was still intent on proving one-upmanship in what he considered to be a game of wits. He blatantly pulled another bank job with some friends while the FBI was looking the other way, and Peter almost had a stroke when his nemesis sashayed into the White Collar office with a lawyer and a lawsuit for harassment in his hands.

“We’ve got to take this guy down,” Peter seethed as he turned to Neal.

“We will, Peter. Just calm down. I don’t like him anymore than you do, so let’s just take a look at the bank security footage again,” Neal said to placate his handler. Of course, it was Neal who noted a discrepancy in the haul and pointed his handler in the direction of an inside accomplice. Then slam, bam, thank you, ma’am, Walker was in cuffs and it was Neal who sent him a parting smirk.

With one mission down and one to go, Neal spent Friday evening with Chuck and Casey in his loft. Chuck was a geek with tunnel vision, and Casey was like a “take no prisoners” battering ram, so Neal had to be the creative one thinking outside the box.

“Look, guys, it’s a simple game of dress up and pretend with a little bit of gymnastic ability thrown into the mix to make it interesting,” Neal explained patiently. “The consulate is hosting a little party on Sunday before the dictator leaves to go back home to South America. To set our plan in motion, I’ll borrow some equipment from a friend. It’s a bit of wizardry that duplicates voices. We can place a call to the drones at the consulate that appears to come from a higher authority telling them about a certain imminent housekeeping chore. Chuck and I will then present ourselves at the front door on Saturday posing as two _‘Speedy Clean’_ workers coming in to buff the floors and shampoo the carpets. We’ll be very thorough and explain that we have to access every floor to make them presentable before the big event the next day. Of course, the suspicious people in the consulate won’t give us the run of the place or access to rooms with locked doors, so we’ll just agree to shampoo the runner in the upstairs hallway.”

“What am I supposed to be doing while the two of you do light housecleaning?” Casey wanted to know.

“You’ll be sitting in the _Speedy Clean_ van watching a security video ready to alert us if a member of the consulate staff comes to inspect our work,” Neal replied. “Just warn us through our ear coms.”

“Clue me in on where the gymnastic bit comes in,” Casey demanded.

‘Well, I saw on the schematics of the building that there is an access panel in the basement ductwork big enough for me to crawl into and work my way through the entire structure. In the meantime, Chuck will start cleaning on the second floor where the main office is, and he’ll keep shampooing until I get there, drop down from the ceiling into the room, and unlock the door for him. If he flashes on the munitions manifest somewhere inside, I can either pick a locked desk drawer or crack a wall safe to get the goods and then we can hightail it leaving behind shiny hardwood and pristine broadloom with nobody suspecting a thing for quite some time.”

“Sitting in a claustrophobic little van seems so boring,” Casey growled.

“Tell me about it,” Neal said under his breath. “Listen, Mr. Macho, not every caper requires a military strike force. The consulate is sovereign soil and if you decide to storm the place, it’ll cause an international incident.”

Casey shrugged, “Been there, done that.”

“Well, not this time,” Neal insisted. “This mission is going to be accomplished with finesse not muscle.”

Casey glowered, “You pretty boys are all so persnickety that it makes me nauseous.”

“Whatever,” Neal retorted, making Chuck grin.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

Of course, everything went like clockwork with the proper preparation. Chuck had hacked into the Marshals anklet feed and made it appear as if Neal was sitting home all day in his loft. The CIA had provided the van, the uniforms, and the cleaning supplies, and General Beckman seemed pleased to get her hot little hands on the arms smugglers’ identities and the cargo manifest, although you’d never know it from her expression. It was a simple, “Well done, Team. I’ll contact you with another mission very soon.”

Neal felt that familiar angst of being manipulated, but, nonetheless, he didn’t badger Beckman for information about Kate’s killer because he knew it probably wouldn’t get him anywhere. So, he juggled his responsibilities as she suggested. He helped Peter and the FBI take down a corrupt politician, an illegal adoption scheme involving Chechen children, and a twisted US Marshal selling witness protection locations. The rest of his free time was taken up with foiling a foreign operative’s attempt to obtain weapons-grade uranium, stealing the blueprints for an underground bunker to protect an arm of the Fulcrum crowd, and waylaying a determined assassin with charming charisma before Casey took him out permanently. Neal tried to forget that brutal resolution to the problem.

In the last few months, Neal was more unmonitored than anyone ever imagined. Peter was frequently removing Neal’s anklet when he went undercover, and when the con man put on his CIA hat, Chuck manipulated the tracker so it really wasn’t scrutinizing anything. Although Neal was a very competent success in his day/night job, he felt as if he had a split personality and his real self was fading away. Mozzie, of course, was the first person to pick up on his friend’s tension, and Neal should have known he could never put one over on his longtime associate.

“What’s with you, mon frère?” Mozzie had confronted Neal one night in his loft over a glass of Merlot.

“I’m just a bit tired and beyond frustrated that we haven’t made any headway in finding Kate’s killer,” Neal admitted.

“Neal, you know I’m working on it, but Fowler’s presently a ghost,” Mozzie said softly. “However, no worries; I’m in for the long haul. I’m not giving up, and neither should you. I hate to say this, but do you think the Suit might be able to help?”

“Maybe, but if I ask, then he’ll start watching me even closer than he has been and, right now, I need some flexibility,” Neal offered that vague explanation which only piqued Mozzie’s interest.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about your nocturnal absences,” Mozzie said slyly. “I’ve come over several times so that you could enjoy my company, only to find that you weren’t here. Does the FBI have that many all-night stake outs?”

Neal tried to deflect Mozzie’s inquiry by refilling the little man’s wine glass and then nonchalantly picking up a paintbrush beneath the ever-present canvas propped on an easel. “There’s some foie gras in the fridge left over from June’s ladies luncheon. Help yourself, Moz.”

Mozzie wasn’t about to let his attention be diverted by very expensive goose liver paste. He stood and meandered into his friend’s space. “This is me, Neal. You’re keeping something from me, and when has that ever been our dynamic? We’re usually only successful when we work together. And don’t trot out that trite old line about keeping me in the dark to protect me. That’s the Suit’s mantra and he used it to keep you from knowing that he has the amber music box. So, now do you see how really lame that excuse is?”

Neal knew his old friend was right, and it was a relief to finally share the burden he had been carrying on his shoulders for months to someone who would die before ever betraying him. Two years ago, Neal had provided the broad strokes to Mozzie after he had been abducted by the CIA and had stolen a painting, well, actually a frame, from a xenophobic collector on an isolated Greek isle. That tale had dovetailed quite nicely into the plethora of Mozzie’s conspiracy theories. However, now Neal was admitting that the cloak and dagger stuff was very real and continuing right here in New York, with him in the thick of it.

“So, are you saying that this ‘Chuck’ person that I once briefly encountered in California is now staying in the Big Apple and you’re his patsy?” Mozzie asked worriedly.

“No, Moz!” Neal quickly replied. “Chuck is the ‘intellectual’ brain behind the scenario, but he’s a nice guy, sort of innocently drawn into a dark web of intrigue like me. He helps me devise ways to complete an assignment dictated from someone higher up the totem pole.”

“I’m an intellectual brain, Neal, so is he better than me?” Mozzie seemed a bit offended.

“Um, maybe his brain works a little differently than yours, Buddy, and that’s all I’m willing to say,” Neal sidestepped an issue that would make him sound certifiable.

Mozzie dropped that line of questioning and forged on. “Is that sociopath Casey still after you, Neal? You said you outsmarted him, but I’ll bet he’s probably still harboring a grudge.”

Neal grimaced. “Casey is still front and center when a CIA op is in progress, but he keeps on task, and afterwards, he slinks back to his secret burrow and goes dormant. I don’t think even Chuck knows where he retreats to plug in his robotic battery to recharge. Peter can’t find him either.”

“Wait just a second!” Mozzie said with his eyes wide and indignant. “Are you telling me the Suit knows about your secret double-life, but you didn’t tell me. I’m highly insulted!”

“Of course not, Moz,” Neal held up his hands in peace. “Peter walked in early on while Casey was here in my loft. Of course, my paranoid handler was immediately suspicious of anyone who wasn’t you, so Chuck told me Peter suddenly started digging into a person named John Casey. He didn’t find a thing because Casey doesn’t officially exist.”

“Chuck told you this?” Mozzie was trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle without a picture as a reference.

Neal shrugged. “Yeah, being a hacker savant is just one of his many talents. He can get into the Marshals feed and place my whereabouts anywhere he wants, and the FBI database seems to be child’s play for him.”

Suddenly Mozzie’s eyes went wide. “I have to meet this genius, Neal. Does he operate out of some kind of secure safe house?”

“He’s close by, openly renting a little walkup within my radius, so most of the time I go there to brainstorm for a mission. I can arrange for you to meet him, if it makes you happy, and I think you’ll like the guy because it’s hard not to get attached,” Neal answered.

“Has the Suit met him?” Mozzie asked with his brow furrowed.

“Yeah, Peter watches my tracker data constantly and he showed up one night, all paranoid, at Chuck’s door. After he met Chuck, he ran a thorough background check on him. On paper, Charles Bartowski is a geeky nerd who used to work for the _Buy More_ out in Burbank, California before moving to New York for a change of scene after a bad romantic breakup. In essence, that’s pretty much true because Chuck’s life is an open book, just missing a few recent clandestine chapters that would had made spy novelist, Robert Ludlum, very proud.”

“If he’s such a paragon of knowledge, can he help us figure out another mission—finding Kate’s killer? I’m assuming that’s why you allowed yourself to get in bed with the CIA.”

“It was supposed to be quid pro quo, but the CIA is dragging their heels,” Neal admitted. “Chuck is trying to help me sort it out, but we have to be careful to not tip our hand.”

Mozzie shuddered. “Big Brother has you in their crosshairs on so many different levels, mon frère, that it boggles my mind.”

“Well, when you meet Chuck you’ll find out he is as far from a sleazy evil spy as you’d ever want to meet,” Neal assured his little bald partner.

And that was exactly what happened when Chuck and Mozzie met. A tall, lanky geek with an infectious smile charmed even distrustful, scowling Mozzie. After a few sessions clacking away together on their laptop keyboards, a conspiracy theorist and a Nerd Herder bonded, sometimes making Neal feel like a fifth wheel. Perhaps that made a pair of misfits feel a bit guilty, so one night they both appeared in Neal’s loft bearing a gift. At first, Neal though the little gadget, no bigger than an iPad, was a tabletop version of _Alexa_. In a way it was, just so much more. Mozzie and Chuck had named their creation, _“Hazel,”_ and she was quite a bit more savvy than her prototype.

“Take some stuff out of your refrigerator, Neal, and put them on the counter,” Mozzie instructed.

Neal was puzzled, but this wasn’t the first time Mozzie had asked him to do seemingly bizarre things. So, the con man complied by pulling out a jar of mayonnaise, some fresh parsley, and a sliced onion. Suddenly, a sexy voice coming from the small device began suggesting recipes for potato salad, an onion and parsley dip, and a green onion tartar sauce. But Hazel didn’t stop there. She boldly took it upon herself to then name a few other items Neal should put on his shopping list, such as chicken breasts or salmon filets. She informed him they could be combined with the previous ingredients to make luscious entrees. Helpful Hazel even went so far as to enumerate the calorie count as well as the vitamins and minerals in those dishes.

Neal felt blindsided and he quickly threw a dishtowel over Hazel. “Guys, I appreciate your creativity and the spirit in which you gifted me with this thing, but don’t I have enough eyes on me already!”

“Sorry, Neal, I guess we weren’t thinking that Hazel might weird you out,” Chuck said with a sad, forlorn expression.

“Yeah, Neal, mea culpa,” Mozzie echoed with his eyes downcast.

When the stressed con man looked at the contrite duo, he couldn’t help but smile. “You know, I don’t think there’s anybody else in the world that I’d want in my corner right now. I probably don’t say it enough, but thank you both for everything you’re trying to do for me.”

Suddenly all was right with the world again.


	4. Oh, What A Tangled Web We Weave (Sir Walter Scott)

Chuck and Mozzie returned to their music box investigation with renewed vigor. The California nerd tried to help and only took a brief hiatus to give Neal intel regarding a microchip with launch codes, which the proficient sneak thief then stole from a Fulcrum operative’s briefcase. General Beckman seemed satisfied, but the woman still failed to provide Neal with any pertinent information about Kate’s killer. Neal was beginning to suspect the CIA head wasn’t trying very hard. So, Neal boldly forged ahead to steal the music box from the FBI’s clutches and then donated it to be displayed as a lure to draw out Garrett Fowler. Neal found himself channeling John Casey as he prepared to end the OPR agent after getting a confession. Only Peter’s persistent pleas prevented Neal from committing murder, and it’s back to square one in the mystery.

On the FBI front, not soon after that fiasco, Peter almost dies from poisoning during an undercover sting, but Neal saves the day wearing his CI’s Superman cape. However, he wasn’t there when Mozzie is shot in the chest one afternoon in the park. Neal intuitively suspects it is because they are getting too close to unraveling the mystery surrounding the music box. He sits apprehensively beside Mozzie’s hospital bed during the night while Chuck takes up the vigil during the day. Both men have been shaken to their core by the close call that almost ended their friend’s life.

Eventually, Mozzie recovers, and he and Chuck put their heads together to discuss fractals while Neal and Peter pursue Mozzie’s hitman and take him down. Finally, there is progress because now the man behind the curtain is unmasked and the evil villain is none other than Vincent Adler.

During the last few weeks, Neal had intentionally ignored the insistent daily summons on the CIA Chromebook. He’d been doing their heavy lifting for months, and the unappreciative spy organization hadn’t lifted a finger to help him, so screw them and their ops. Neal wasn’t very surprised when John Casey paid him a visit one night.

“I’ve been told you’ve been shirking your responsibilities,” the big man growled ominously.

“Well, I’ve been a little busy taking care of some business that’s closer to my heart,” Neal snorted.

The young con man was a bit surprised when Casey actually smiled. “Yeah, I heard you went all ‘Dirty Harry’ the other day in some Russian museum. Would you have really blown that piece of crap into kingdom come?”

“Perhaps,” Neal shrugged, “but maybe it’s better that I didn’t because he wasn’t the one responsible for killing my girlfriend.”

“So, one step forward, then two steps back,” Casey said in a sing song voice. “Is Chuck helping you make any sense of it?”

Neal intended to protect the Intersect. “Chuck isn’t involved. This is my fight.”

“Oh, c’mon, Caffrey, we both know that’s a lie. Chuck is always eager to help anyone with a problem. He’s got a soft heart and that’s his Achilles Heel. He’s grown attached to you these past months, so, of course, he’s up to his neck in this and perhaps a bit distracted. General Beckman is not only worried about him, she concerned that you’ve lost your focus because you’re ignoring her.”

“We made a deal,” Neal said hotly, “and she reneged on it! I’ve performed a dozen missions for the CIA and I hadn’t been afforded even a whisper about the person responsible for blowing up a private plane on a Teterboro tarmac a year ago. I had to uncover his identity myself. So you and all your spy buddies can take a hike because I’m done!”

Casey ignored the outburst, ambled over to Neal’s refrigerator, and smiled when he spotted the cold beers Neal kept there for Peter’s visits. “Don’t recognize this Heisler brew, but beer is beer, and ya can’t beat a cold one!”

Neal eyed his nemesis carefully as he retrieved the spy laptop from Neal’s book shelf and sat it on the dining table. “Check in, Caffrey. You’ve been AWOL far too long,” he snarled.

“And if I don’t?” Neal said evenly.

“Let me level with you, Slick,” Casey replied in a flat voice. “I’ve been instructed to either get you back on track or eliminate you.”

“Just like that,” Neal said with raised eyebrows as he snapped his fingers.

“Yep, just like that,” Casey agreed.

There ensued a tense few seconds before Neal relented, opened the Chromebook, and checked in with his CIA boss. General Beckman’s mouth was set in a tight line that made her look as if she had just bitten into something sour. “Mr. Caffrey, how gracious of you to spare me a minute of your precious time,” the older woman snarked.

Neal was not about to be bullied. “Well, Madam, it seems that you lacked the grace to help me with my problem even after I’ve proven my worth to you and your cronies over and over this past year.”

“It wouldn’t have been very prudent for you to be privy to classified information,” the General parried.

“Why? Was a Ponzi schemer named Adler really a classified subject or are you just blowing smoke?” Neal insisted.

Beckman glared while Neal stared back defiantly. “Let’s just say that this Adler fellow is connected to something much bigger, and that’s on a need to know basis,” the woman finally admitted.

Neal barked out a condescending laugh. “General, pardon me for being disrespectful, but you’re a walking, talking cliché. Either you read me into this fully, or tell Casey to end me. The ball’s in your court now. Either fess up or I click off this link.”

Beckman held Neal’s glare and tried to maintain a poker face, but a good con man could watch a person’s countenance and read the tells. Neal now suspected that Beckman still needed him, and she was reluctant to order his termination because of her own secret, but probably despicable, reasons. And Neal was right on the money.

Beckman sighed and began to strew out a breadcrumb trail. “We here at the CIA knew who Vincent Adler was from the get-go, but when we initially investigated his long ago crime, we pegged him as simply a shrewd and greedy grifter not worthy of our attention, much like you, Mr. Caffrey.”

Neal merely scowled and remained silent after the insult, so Beckman continued. “However, recently we made a connection between him and a very lucrative prize, valuable both monetarily as well as politically. That’s all I’m willing to share at this time,” she ended abruptly.

“Well, let me add my two cents, General,” Neal taunted. “Tell me how far off the Richter scale I am when I shake up your world. I believe Adler is after the location of a World War II submarine that was scuttled off the coast of New York in the late 1940s. I believe it was a Nazi sub, and that makes one wonder what treasures may lay inside what has become a time capsule. Care to hazard a guess?”

“How did you come to this outlandish conclusion, Mr. Caffrey?” Beckman demanded to know.

“Well, General, I may have friends with unique detective skills, as well,” was all that Neal was willing to admit, not intending to spell out that Chuck had provided the major portion of the theory after flashing on a picture of Adler.

Finally, the CIA head of operations sighed. This was big, and the bigger the secret, the harder it was to contain. If she was forthcoming, she’d probably only be confirming what Caffrey already knew, but hopefully not the ultimate end game.

“Okay, I’ll lay my cards on the table,” Beckman finally agreed. “The submarine of which you speak was, indeed, a Nazi vessel. We believe it contains a very valuable treasure. During the last days of the Third Reich, the handwriting was on the wall and the German High Command decided to cut their losses and make provisions for another day. All through the war, wealthy Jews throughout Europe were stripped of their possessions before they were marched off to the death camps, and their heirlooms and valuables were amassed on a daily basis. That treasure trove was initially hidden away in Germany, but when all hope of victory for the Nazi regime was lost, a great portion of the stolen goods was smuggled out of the country to South America. Many of Hitler’s generals already had an escape planned that would take them to Argentina to avoid capture. We believe that one U-boat made a detour in its journey and furtively approached the coast of New York. It was intentionally scuttled, with optimistic Germans intending to return for it later after the war was finally over.”

Neal was eyeing the General carefully. “I know my history, General, and I’ve heard all the whispered stories that allude to stolen artwork that may have survived the Holocaust. Are you saying that it may be true?”

“We believe it is true, Mr. Caffrey,” the woman admitted.

“How does Vincent Adler fit into this scenario?” Neal wanted to know.

“Vincent Adler’s father was in the German navy and he must have related the details to his only child. Eventually, searching for the Holy Grail became the son’s passion. We believe the present Herr Adler may have located that submarine just recently, and we want its contents,” Beckman said flatly.

“Are you saying that the CIA is mounting a covert operation in order to obtain a treasure monetarily worth a fortune?” Neal asked incredulously. “I must say that paints a rather ambiguous picture. Is a government agency with a mission to protect our country from evil enemies really just all about greed?”

“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Caffrey!” General Beckman barked. “If we obtain the contents of that sub and it really is a collection of confiscated masterpieces and artifacts, that puts the CIA in a very strategic position.”

“Well, maybe you can deign to explain the long game, or should I say _con_ ,” Neal taunted.

Beckman hesitated, but realized she had opened a can of worms. Caffrey was smart, one of the best, so he’d probably connect the dots and become a loose cannon if he wasn’t read in. “Maintaining world order is very much like a very complex game of chess, young man,” she began. “It’s always good to think several moves ahead to persevere and win your ultimate objective. Our goal is world peace and stability.”

Neal actually laughed after Beckman’s opening remark, but she chose to ignore his insolence and continued with her explanation. “Germany is a strong influential world power and many of today’s German leaders, first and second generation progeny of those original Nazis, hold positions of impressive authority. They are scions of industry as well as dominant political leaders, some representing Germany in the United Nations and the European Union. Those movers and shakers have buried their roots quite deeply, some changing their names and reinventing their ancestral heritage that links them to maniacal killers spawned 80 years ago. We have done our homework and we know of the familial ties, so we have a distinct advantage if the Nazi treasure becomes ours. It becomes leverage, Mr. Caffrey.”

Neal narrowed his eyes and stared at Beckman. “It’s all very Machiavellian, Madam, but I suppose I would expect no less from a spy agency. As I previously said, I know my history. The CIA acting in the ‘best’ interest of the US propped up puppets like Diem in Viet Nam and the Shah in Iran until the inevitable coups took place. More recently, I’m thinking about the intel provided by the CIA concerning Saddam Hussein and WMDs, a convenient excuse so they could take the despot down. Now there’s an embarrassment causing the average person to suspect someone was pulling the strings to control the narrative.”

Neal sat back and waited for Beckman’s response. When none was forthcoming, he forged recklessly ahead. “So, how’s this scenario sound—the CIA threatens to expose the backgrounds of some very influential Germans if they don’t get on your bandwagon and let you dictate their politics. If they refuse to play ball, you will make sure that a now respected, solidified, and democratic German state would lose all credibility in world opinion. In a nutshell, you’ll hold this threat of exposure over their heads so that they do your bidding on the world stage. Ultimately, you want them to become puppets for the CIA because you’ll threaten to expose and humiliate them if they don’t kowtow to your party line. I think it’s almost biblical in nature, the sins of the father being visited upon the children. Does that about sum it up, General?”

“Political stability in the world is of paramount importance, and we utilize whatever means we have at our disposal to maintain it,” Beckman said with a holier-than-thou attitude. “As I’ve just said, Germany is a powerful influence in today’s political arena, so having leverage is a definite countermeasure to ensure order.”

“Leverage could also be called blackmail,” Neal taunted. “Why don’t you stop trying to paint yourself and the CIA as the good guys. If you really want to convince me of a higher purpose, then why wouldn’t you insist that the Nazi treasure be repatriated back to the original owners or their heirs? I’m thinking off the top of my head that there is a more malevolent agenda in play, and it’s called money. By using straw men to clandestinely sell off bits and pieces of the treasure to discrete shady buyers, your little band of miscreants could amass quite a lucrative slush fund to use at your own discretion. How far off the mark am I, General?”

“That’s just ridiculous,” Beckman sputtered. “As I said, Mr. Caffrey, it all about leverage on the world stage, not a New World Order. Is that too complicated a concept for you to understand, or are you one of those crazy conspiracy theorist who blames the government for everything from ice caps melting to mutant flu bugs? Maybe you believe there really were aliens who landed in the Nevada desert decades ago.”

“You seem to perseverate on that word, ‘leverage,’ General,” Neal mocked. “How about I center your focus on another noun—duplicity. Call me crazy, but I think the CIA has had an agenda concerning me from the start. I don’t think you were completely honest when you claimed that, back in the day, you dismissed Vincent Adler as just a swindler. You knew he was always searching for the treasure just as you knew I was his protégé and he seemed to regard me, dare I say, like a son. When he flew the coop and disappeared, you lost your Indiana Jones because he was able to evaporate into thin air.

However, I was still around and you kept a close eye on me because you couldn’t be sure that I wasn’t a front man for him carrying on a treasure hunt in his stead. But your suspicions shifted after my girlfriend died. You always knew that Adler was responsible for her death, just as you hoped that if you got me out of prison I’d never stop until I figured it out and found him to get my revenge. That’s why you recruited me. I was just a ‘tool’ in your belt to locate your quarry who was now mine. How am I doing so far?”

“You have a very fanciful nature, young man,” the General scolded. “Don’t let your imagination make you look foolish.”

“I’m a lot of things, but a fool isn’t one of them,” Neal sneered. “So, where do we go from here?”

The General looked like the stern taskmaster that she was. “We continue just as before. You have only mission now, Mr. Caffrey, and that is to find that treasure by whatever means.”


	5. Be Careful What You Wish For (Aesop’s Fables)

General Beckman’s directive became redundant because Vincent Adler was already three steps ahead and had the treasure within his grasp—well, almost. He had located and raised the fabled sub, transported it to a drydock warehouse, and, after taking a cursory ultrasound appraisal, had prudently decided that he needed some expert assistance in gaining access to the legendary treasure within her hold. And, of course, that expert was Neal Caffrey, the only man Adler would trust to pry open the hatch and deal with an antiquated enigma machine, as well as a multitude of unstable TNT strategically laid directly in the path to Aladdin’s Cave. Neal, of course, was up to the task, and suddenly, a myth became a reality. Unfortunately, it was at that point that he, along with Peter and Alex Hunter, became expendable. All three would have died a slow death by drowning if it wasn’t for Mozzie and Chuck’s fragile little fractal antenna. The cavalry had come to the rescue in the nick of time, but Peter and Neal still needed to again find the sub’s whereabouts. Peter decided that was their mission for the following day.

Peter was all over it the next morning with a formidable SWAT team ready to scour every inch of a warehouse complex that, thanks to Alex Hunter’s recall, was now ground zero. While agents split up and cautiously made their way down narrow lanes between metal edifices, Casey patiently lay almost flat atop a roof high on a boxy structure that afforded him a panoramic view in every direction. He kept Neal in his sight with binoculars and his trusty sniper weapon was by his side. He saw Caffrey begin his own solo search that drew him to a nearby roll-up door, and Casey quickly identified a man he knew to be Vincent Adler approach with several of his henchmen. The NSA agent raised his rifle and had Adler’s back directly in the line of fire when a huge explosion erupted throwing all the small, distant figures to the ground. Unbelievably, Neal and Adler were the only two to rise and teeter on unsteady legs, mesmerized by the rapidly spreading flames before them.

“Well, so much for that legendary Nazi treasure that everybody coveted,” Casey grunted to himself. This mission was now a wash, but, uncharacteristically, Casey felt a pang of sympathy for Neal Caffrey. When Adler raised a gun and was obviously going to kill the little irritant, Casey once again got Adler in his gun sight. However, just as he was about to pull the trigger and obtain revenge for the con man, someone beat him to the punch. Casey was so intent on steadying his rifle, he failed to notice Peter Burke ride in like a white knight on his charger and do the deed for him. Very neat and tidy, so now an NSA operative became superfluous. He silently slunk away, never spotted by the FBI team, and within minutes was communicating with General Beckman to deliver the disappointing news.

When the CIA chief was reached, she sighed and shrugged, “Well, it was always a long shot, but there was a small hope that all our years of surveilling Caffrey would pay off. Now it’s time to cut our losses. Pack yourself and Chuck up and head back to California. I’ve just received new intel that Department Head Daniel Shaw is a despicable traitor, a wicked double agent working for an umbrella organization called ‘The Ring’ that actually oversees Fulcrum. Agent Walker has been kidnapped by them, and our prime objective is to obtain her safe return.”

“And Caffrey?” Casey asked.

Beckman was quite cavalier in her attitude. “We don’t need him anymore so he can become the FBI’s problem now. They have him on a leash so we don’t have to trouble ourselves keeping track of him for at least the next three years, maybe more, if he messes up. Perhaps that’s a foregone conclusion because that boy has an attitude that most likely will get him in hot water at some point in time.”

“Understood, General,” Casey said smartly as he began the trek to Chuck’s apartment. Of course, the good-natured geek was distressed about Sarah Walker, but he was also upset that Beckman forbade him to bid a farewell to Neal and Mozzie. “But General, it seems really hurtful to just disappear without saying goodbye,” he begged.

“Mr. Bartowski,” Beckman sighed, “you do realize the ramifications of developing personal ties to people in our line of work. Past experience should have taught you that getting emotionally attached inhibits your rather remarkable abilities. Right now, with Agent Walker in grave danger, you have to be in top form, so pack your bags and get your butt on the jet that is waiting for you at Teterboro. I’ll brief you during the flight.”

~~~~~~~~~~

General Beckman was right. Neal found himself in trouble before he ever left the warehouse complex, although it wasn’t his doing. Peter Burke assumed that Neal had taken the opportunity the night before to steal the treasure out from under Adler’s nose and then arrange for the warehouse to explode to cover his tracks. That set the tone of a CI and his handler’s relationship that suddenly morphed into suspicion, distrust, and gut-wrenching hurt. Neal felt vindicated when he discovered that Mozzie was taking credit for the crime Peter had accused him of engineering. It was almost karmic in nature, and Neal suspected his bond with Peter was irrevocably broken. He repeatedly told himself that he didn’t care, but a little voice inside his head told him that he did.

Of course, Mozzie was smug and beyond euphoric about their sudden good fortune, and Neal cautiously tried to tamp down the bald thief’s enthusiasm. When Mozzie’s hubris became unbearable, Neal took himself to Chuck’s small apartment for a bit of respite. He was dumfounded when the rental agent waylaid him and told him Chuck had broken the lease, forfeited his deposit, and left like a thief in the night. He had disappeared just as the CIA Chromebook had inexplicably vanished from Neal’s loft. Once again, Neal felt like the really important people in his life had abandoned him. It was an old refrain that had taken root in his childhood, instilled in his psyche by an emotionally absent mother and a physically absent father. Of course, then there was Kate’s rash departure during their sometimes turbulent relationship, but Neal wouldn’t let his mind go there because it hurt too much.

Mozzie was perhaps just as troubled by Chuck’s abrupt departure. Allowing himself to develop a relationship that slowly transformed into friendship was a rare occurrence in the paranoid man’s life. He should have known better. But then one day a letter arrived at June’s house addressed to him and Neal from Burbank, California. Neal had already opened it before Mozzie made his nightly appearance to stare at the treasure cam and drink his friend’s wine.

“I can’t make heads or tails out of this,” Neal said in a perplexed tone as he held out the single sheet of stationery. “It’s not exactly gibberish, but it’s not any language I’ve ever seen.”

Mozzie gave it a quick glance and a smile blossomed on his face. “It’s Klingon,” he chirped happily. “Chuck taught me the dialect and it’s a perfect code because who would ever think _Star Trek_ , right?”

“If you say so,” Neal replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Chuck wants us to know that leaving without saying goodbye was not his idea. It seems there were extenuating circumstances because Sarah Walker had been kidnapped by someone Chuck can’t name for obvious reasons. But he wants you to know, Neal, that everything turned out okay and he may be getting a do-over with the love of his life. He also says that he misses his hacking sessions with me,” Mozzie finished with a pleased grin on his face.

“Well, I’m glad somebody’s life is on an upswing,” Neal remarked dryly.

“Is the Suit still in a snit?” Mozzie asked.

“You could say that,” the young con man answered softly.

While Neal had once relished working by Peter’s side taking down bad guys, now Peter saw Neal as the villain, and their partnership was beyond tense with a handler continually probing for a weak spot to enable him to take his CI down. Tied to each other as they were, both soldiered on as best as they could. Neal helped Peter capture a man wanted for robbing the Federal Reserve, and, only weeks later, tried to redirect a caricature of himself dubbed, “Robin Hoodie,” away from the dark side. Peter wasn’t buying into Neal’s ‘choirboy act,’ as he called it.

Things reached critical mass when Elizabeth Burke was kidnapped by Matthew Keller and her ransom was the treasure. Neal only partially redeemed himself in Peter’s eyes by readily giving up his means to freedom. For just a while, a sort of equilibrium was restored, but it was not meant to sustain the pressure cooker atmosphere for the long haul. Misfortune seemed to hover over Neal like a dark sinister cloud, and the arrival of Philip Kramer at Neal’s commutation hearing some months later was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Neal reverted to old tried and true habits and he ran.

It takes Peter Burke and his junior agents a while to figure out Neal’s whereabouts. It takes the CIA quite less time after General Beckman hears that Neal Caffrey is in the wind. John Casey is immediately dispatched to Cape Verde off the coast of Western Africa. His mission is to snuff out Neal’s life because General Beckman is not fond of an unmonitored civilian, a wild card, really, gadding about with CIA knowledge tucked away in his grey matter. Neal is now considered to be a liability, a loose end that has come unraveled. The covert spy agency can’t afford to let him live.

Casey expediently arrived on the small island in the Atlantic archipelago and quickly locates Neal’s upscale clandestine hideaway, a quite open and airy villa with an ocean view and an infinity swimming pool. The NSA agent takes his time to get the lay of the land and study Caffrey’s routines. He actually positions himself high up on a dune one sunrise, blending into the sand with his dun-colored camouflage. He knows Neal runs along this stretch of beach each morning, and Casey is quite capable of putting a bullet through the young jogger’s head. Ultimately, Casey scraps that particular plan. A dead body with a hollow point through its skull would raise too many questions. Instead, the agent dons a colorful Hawaiian shirt and straw hat and continues his surveillance. He watches Neal patiently build sandcastles for a pretty island girl and later take her home for the night. It looks sweet and innocent and Casey remembers back to a time when his own life was just as naively simple and pure.

However, Casey is very astute, and he immediately recognizes a verbose and pushy newcomer to the island as a bloodthirsty bounty hunter—just another word to describe a rabid and determined assassin. Perhaps this new player will take care of business for Casey and he won’t have to risk exposure. Yes, that’s the excuse he is telling himself instead of owning up to the fact that maybe he truly doesn’t want to harm a young guy caught up in something that really wasn’t his fault. The CIA could turn people’s lives upside down, and collateral damage was the norm rather than the exception.

Casey decides to take a dangerous plunge and he contacts General Beckman. “Ma’am, things have gotten complicated here in Cape Verde. Caffrey is like the Pied Piper with a whole little parade of rats on his trail. There’s a very determined bounty hunter, and just today, FBI Agent Peter Burke has fallen in step, as well. It’s only a matter of time before our ex-asset bites the dust and the Agency can stand back and let nature takes its course without us getting our own hands dirty.”

Beckman was thoughtful. “Are you sure of your facts, Colonel Casey?”

“Well, just this morning, I’ve heard scuttlebutt that a certain bounty hunter has already shot Neal Caffrey,” is what Casey relates, letting his chief form her own conclusion.

The CIA head hesitates for only a moment. “Very well, then, Colonel, you may return back to California. Big things are in the works. Chuck is about to take on ‘The Ring,’ so your assistance is of paramount importance.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Casey obediently replies even while an off-the-reservation scheme is simmering on the back burner of his brain. Instead of winging his way across the Atlantic, and then across the United States, Casey chooses to turn off his cellphone, remove the battery, and make a pit stop in New York City.

~~~~~~~~~~

Reese Hughes, the Special Agent in Charge of White Collar, likes the comfort of routine. He has become a creature of habit since his wife passed away, maybe even before that. He favors having his solitary evening meal in an unpretentious diner in Manhattan that serves uncomplicated home cooked favorites like beef stew, meat loaf, and chicken pot pie. Hughes has never been an elitist in any way, shape, or form, so this is his comfort zone after he leaves his office each night. It’s hard for him to return to an empty house whose walls echo with the sounds of so many ghosts. He admits it is a lonely existence, and he almost lost his mind several years ago when his age mandated that he should retire. Taking up bird watching or cultivating a vegetable garden seemed ludicrous to a man who had worn so many hats during his long career. Over the past decades, he had wielded an iron in a lot of fires—agencies that went by acronyms just like the FBI, only more clandestine and powerful. Hughes had forged a lot of liaisons during that phase of his life, and he wasn’t reluctant to call in a favor after he was forced out of his day job. Ergo, a loophole suddenly opened up for the old veteran and he was reinstated as the head of the White Collar unit. It was beneficial to have friends in high places.

Hughes had just finished his entrée of turkey tetrazzini and had started on a piece of apple pie when a tall man in a dark suit approached his table. Hughes suddenly found himself staring up at an individual with a rigid military posture and broad shoulders that were straining the seams of his jacket. This sudden apparition slid into a chair across from a wary Hughes and smiled, “There’s nothing so all-American as apple pie,” he grinned.

“Do I know you?” Hughes asked as he narrowed his eyes and stared hard at his impromptu tablemate.

“If names make you more comfortable, then you can call me Casey—John Casey. But I have to warn you that if you go trying to investigate me, you’ll find that it’s an exercise in futility because I’m a ghost, a very _spooky_ specter, if you get my drift.”

“If you’re trying to intimidate me, that’s a lost cause,” Hughes growled. “Now tell me why you are here invading my space,” the leery old man demanded to know.

Casey actually grinned. “I’m here to tell you a little fairytale about someone you know quite well. He’s actually been the FBI’s indentured workhorse for quite some time, and I believe that now you should return some favors that he is due.”

_“Caffrey!”_ Hughes uttered that one name as if it were a curse word.

Casey shrugged. “If you want to put names to the characters in this fictional story, that’s your choice. I’m just saying that a plucky young whelp was pulled into something, kicking and screaming, for all the good it did him. Agent Hughes, you know how it is when certain organizations demand their pound of flesh and you either toe the line or else.”

“Why would I know that?” Hughes tried to be cagy.

“Please don’t insult my intelligence,” Casey snickered. “We both know that you still have some sway in what certain people refer to as ‘The Company.’ Let me reassure you, I’m going far off the beaten path by meeting with you regarding this very delicate subject. I’ll deny everything if you relate this conversation to anyone. But just hear me out before you close down your mind.”

“Go on,” Hughes huffed, never admitting that he was intrigued.

So, Casey related everything—Neal’s reluctant recruitment by the CIA and the many missions he had accomplished for his taskmasters. Just listening to a rendition of the dangerous double life Caffrey had been leading was making Hughes’ head spin. Apparently, the foolhardy young con artist had been walking a very thin high wire without a net these last many months. The old curmudgeon was impressed.

“So, why are you telling me all this?” Hughes asked cautiously. “Caffrey ran of his own volition. Am I to assume that now _all_ his chickens have come home to roost?”

Casey sighed. “Pretty much. So, I’m coming to you for a solution because I guess I’ve begun to respect the contrary little idiot. Or maybe, because I’m a former Marine, it’s more simple. We never leave a fellow combatant behind with his ass flapping in the breeze. Caffrey deserves better, and with your intersession, maybe you can help him out.”

“I am intuiting that your visit today should be kept on the down low?” Hughes asked knowingly.

“Now you’re getting the picture,” Casey grinned.

~~~~~~~~~~

Late that night, Hughes removed a special burner phone from a wall safe and punched in a number from memory. He said the right code words and he was immediately connected to an old comrade. “It’s been a while,” the tinny voice remarked.

“Yes, it has,” Hughes agreed, “and now I’m calling in another chit.” 


	6. A Separate Peace (John Knowles)

Peter, Neal, and Mozzie were scrambling trying to formulate a plan to get Neal safely off the Cape Verde island and, hopefully, back in the FBI’s good graces. They reasoned that unveiling the identity of Robert McLeish, a very coveted criminal on the FBI’s most wanted list, could turn out to be the key to obtaining a sort of deal for the runaway CI. Any first step in an overture needed to start with Peter’s boss, cantankerous old Reese Hughes. Peter had his doubts the plan would work and was prepared to grovel, but, unbelievably, that wasn’t necessary. Hughes listened without interrupting and then said brusquely, “I’ll make it so,” parroting another imperious person, the Starship Captain Jean Luc Picard of the “ _Enterprise_.”

In no time, Peter Burke was back in New York in his role of ASAC, and Neal was looking at his desk longingly as he limped in from the elevators with a stylish cane, courtesy of June Ellington. He barely had time to say hello to Diana and Jones before he noted the two-fingered summons coming from the balcony outside of Hughes’ office. Neal sighed and was prepared to hear a lecture fraught with threats and caveats. He hoped Hughes wouldn’t reduce his already restricted radius.

“Close the door, Caffrey,” Hughes growled after Neal had made the arduous climb to the SAC’s office.

Neal immediately complied and sat on the edge of his chair. “Sir?” he murmured softly as the old man sent him a menacing glare.

“First things first,” the department head glowered. “Lose the facial hair. It looks ridiculously unkempt and it’s not allowed in the FBI agent’s handbook.”

“Okaay,” Neal drawled uncertainly.

The tension in the room was almost palpable before Hughes spoke again. “Next on the agenda is something that has recently come to my attention. It seems that you have been leading a sort of double life for quite some time now, and I am far from pleased because that means that the FBI does not have your full and undivided attention. Ergo, I have taken certain steps to insure that the other distraction is now a thing of the past. Do I make myself clear?”

“Um, I think so,” Neal replied carefully, actually feeling way over his head in a sea of uncertainty.

“Good!” Hughes barked. “Now this conversation never happened, well, except for the part about that messy scruff on your cheeks and upper lip.”

When Neal slunk out of the claustrophobic little glass cubical, he was immediately accosted by his handler. “What did Hughes have to say?” Peter asked worriedly.

Neal looked at Peter with wide eyes, “He told me to shave.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter and Neal settled back into their comfortable routine. They took down David Cook, a longtime target on Peter’s hit list, and Neal saved a beautiful young widow named Sophie Covington from being abducted. A now single-focused CI began to breathe just a little easier because his life had become less complicated. There was no longer a spy Chromebook signaling a summons to endure General Beckman’s stern face, nor was there a hovering John Casey looking over his shoulder. Life should have been copacetic for our con man, but, of course, that wasn’t Neal’s destiny.

Sometimes, when circumstances overwhelmed him, as they often did, Neal pictured himself as Sisyphus, the mythological king of Corinth. According to legend, that audacious monarch had angered the ancient Greek gods with his hubris, and his punishment was swift and eternal. He was doomed to forever push a great heavy boulder up a steep hill, only to make it halfway up the mountain before the rock came crashing down on him. The boulder crashing down on Neal this time was his own father, newly resurrected from the grave, James Bennett.

Neal’s long absent father became a bone of contention between Peter and his CI. The FBI agent couldn’t seem to get on board and trust a man who had abandoned his wife and son years ago, only to suddenly reappear again out of the blue. Peter suspected there was an agenda, and he did what good FBI agents do—he began to investigate. Maybe Peter was mounting his own campaign because he was a lawman, or maybe it was because Neal sometimes felt more like his son than his partner. For whatever reason, ultimately, it was to protect a young man he suspected was emotionally compromised by the return of a parental figure. Of course, Neal resented Peter’s interference, and they actually came to blows over it in a boxing ring. Dealing with a hardheaded partner was no picnic.

It was almost preordained that things would go from bad to worse with Neal’s father actually committing murder and framing Peter for it. No matter how shocked and emotionally devastated a son was, he quickly got his priorities in order. Peter was the one who now needed saving, and Neal would use whatever means possible to make it happen. Of course, the clever con artist was successful, but Peter’s reaction when he found out how Neal had accomplished the feat was over-the-top and harsh.

This new schism was even worse than the one opened up by a stolen Nazi treasure. This one seemed like it would be permanent because Peter had reacted by withdrawing himself emotionally as well as physically. Neal tolerated a new handler, as if he had a choice, but the damage had been done and seemed irreversible. Neal maintained a poker face when Peter informed him that he had been offered a promotion in Washington DC and was considering a relocation. That startling revelation had Neal mentally taking it on the chin because a small vestige of hope still lingered in his head that everything could be fixed. Then his more logical left brain reminded him that he had been abandoned before and he had survived. That’s probably why he and Mozzie understood each other so well. Both had to make it on their own in the world without being weighed down by cloying personal baggage.

Neal mentally shook himself and knew he had to get his head on straight by jettisoning a certain nebulous feeling. Perhaps, if he had to give it a name, it was a sense of betrayal by someone he had admired, trusted, maybe even loved in his own way. Well, moving on was something two could do. Neal would move on as well, and the Pink Panther gang was going to be his ticket to freedom. Just like almost every other caper Neal had undertaken, he was successful at this one, too. He was so successful, that all he left behind were anguished tears at his funeral. Neal wasn’t around for the maudlin memorial; he was quite busy in Paris reinventing himself.

~~~~~~~~~~

The earth made its slow way around the sun as it always does until a year had elapsed. Peter and Elizabeth now had a son, and a doting father and husband left his desk precisely on the stroke of six each evening to enjoy the contented bounty life had awarded him. Of course, there were old haunting wounds in his life, but he had managed to slap a band aid on them hoping they’d eventually scar over. It was how he managed to sleep at night.

Meanwhile, a “deceased” confidential informant was also retiring each night with a sense of relaxed fulfillment. Neal relished his new vibrant city, and was free to explore, paint, and even advise the Louvre about updating and maintaining the most efficient security system. Yes, that seemed like a contradiction for a latent thief, but Neal actually had put that life behind him because he reasoned that he now had everything he really desired. When he gazed out of the French doors on his balcony, the fantastic sight of the Eifel Tower shimmered in the distance, it’s glow a comforting beacon making him feel a sense of safety and belonging. Sometimes, Neal thought back to another view—the Empire State Building that he had been able to admire from his New York loft. It felt nostalgically similar, but it really wasn’t the same. Now an unfettered man could make his own choices and control his own fate. He could walk the streets at leisure, never having to feel confined by a mere two-mile radius or kowtowing to handlers. There was nobody yanking on his leash to bring him back to heel. Yes, life was good for Neal, but maybe he should have remembered his destiny written under those capricious night stars.

One late evening, there was an insistent knocking on his apartment door. Perhaps he should have been wary, but he had become complacent and had stopped looking over his shoulder a long time ago. Neal is dumbfounded when he comes face to face with none other than John Casey. The big man sticks a foot inside the threshold to prevent Neal from slamming the door in his face. A smile curls his mouth as he says, “Hey, there, Skippy; long time, no see.”

Neal narrows his eyes and quickly retorts, “I’m not really surprised to see you, Casey, because you always show up like a bad penny. Shouldn’t you be wearing some kind of disguise, maybe like a traveling salesman selling vacuum cleaners or French encyclopedias? That would make you blend right into the bland woodwork.”

“Always with the smart remarks,” Casey snipes as he pushes past Neal into the apartment. He quickly takes in the magnificent view. “I swear, you’re like a cat, Caffrey, always landing on your feet.”

Neal sighs. “Don’t tell me; let me guess. The CIA has tracked me down yet again. What does your boss want me to do now?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Casey claims as he struts around the room and then zeroes in on the kitchen. “Any beer in your refrigerator?”

“Nope, just wine in the rack or whiskey in the pantry, if you want to get down and dirty,” Neal answers.

“I like down and dirty, so whiskey will definitely work for me,” Casey grins as he makes himself comfortable on the leather sofa.

Neal pours Casey two fingers of Macallan Scotch and then fills a tumbler for himself. He warily takes a chair across from his old nemesis. “What exactly did you mean when you said that you have no idea what the CIA wants with me. You’re their eager errand boy, if memory serves me.”

“You’re behind the times, Kiddo. I’ve been retired, or I should say I’ve been dismissed, from ‘The Company’ for quite some time now. Yep, I left it all behind me and I now work for somebody else. Want me to catch you up?” Casey teased.

“I’m quivering in anticipation,” Neal mocked.

“Well, the short version is your old buddy, Chuck, finally did get the girl and, in a ‘happily ever after’ scenario, they’re as disgustingly gleeful as pigs in mud. They’ve distanced themselves from the CIA and opened their own private spy operation, ‘Carmichael Industries.’ I work for them now.”

“I guess a change of pace is probably good,” Neal countered. “Please don’t tell me they want me to follow in your footsteps.”

Casey grinned. “Nah! I’m just checking up on you because Chuck is a worrywart and he was hoping that this whole reinvention thing you’ve got going on is really working for you.”

“Well, you can tell him I’m fine to put his mind at ease,” the con man responded firmly.

“You can say you’re fine, but it isn’t easy, is it?” the former NSA man murmured.

“What do you mean?” Neal asked sharply.

“I mean becoming a whole new entity and leaving people behind. It has definite drawbacks. Believe me, I know,” Casey remarked almost wistfully. “Let me clue you in. I wasn’t always John Casey. You’re not the only one living under an assumed persona. I’ve had aliases myself, maybe even more than you, Hotshot. But, just like you, I have only one real name.”

“Are you going to share?” Neal said in an even tone, never dreaming his visitor would comply.

“Sure, why the hell not,” Casey said as he heaved a sigh. “It’s not as if you’re going to rat me out. Once upon a time, the real me was a young Marine named Alexander Coburn. Back in those early days, I even had a fiancée and everything, but things changed when I met a persuasive NSA recruiter at the ripe old age of twenty-three. He was responsible for making me the man I eventually became, but that was only after he talked me into doing something very radical. I agreed to let him assist me in faking my own death and becoming someone else. So, you see, I do know a thing or two about transformations and leaving people behind. And after Beckman threw me to the curb, I began reexamining a lot of stuff, a lot of choices I had made during my young, impetuous, and stupid salad days. Now, knowing what I know from years of experience, I decided maybe it was time to made amends. Maybe you should do the same, Buddy—reconnect, I mean, with the important people in your past and make things right.”

“Maybe I don’t need or want any life advice,” Neal challenged. “But you can humor me by telling me how that existential epiphany worked out for you in the end.”

Now the smile that Casey displayed seemed real. “Actually, it worked out very well. I discovered that I have a daughter that I never knew had been conceived. She’s a young woman now and we’ve gotten to know each other, and that girl makes me a very proud papa.”

“That’s sounds great, and I’m happy for you, but I don’t think I have any offspring running around in diapers,” Neal shrugged.

“No, but your old FBI handler does. The kid’s a toddler now, and maybe you’d be interested to know the Burkes named him _Neal._ ” Casey was just a wellspring of new information.

Neal retained his poker face by sheer determination. “I’m glad Peter and Elizabeth are happy. When I was involved in their life, I only brought trouble to their doorstep.”

Now it was Casey who was shrugging indifferently as he rose from the sofa and was heading for the door. “I’m just putting this out there. Life is too short to dwell on past screwups. If you tie up your loose ends, you may feel all the better for it. Well, that’s enough preaching for one day. If you’re ever in Burbank, ‘Carmichael Industries’ isn’t hard to find. Chuck would be over the moon to see you, and maybe even I could tolerate your presence.”

“That’s very Zen of you,” Neal couldn’t help getting in the last word.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal couldn’t fall asleep later that night after Casey left. Finally, he gave up tossing and turning and sat on his balcony waiting for the sun to rise over the majestic city. The sight had always afforded him a sense of peace and contentment, but maybe not quite everything that would satisfy his soul. By 5 am he had made a decision. It was actually 11 pm EST in New York, but his call was quickly answered. After a gruff male voice slurred a sleepy, “Hello,” Neal smiled to himself and responded softly. “Hello, Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and taking a little journey with me down White Collar's Memory Lane.


End file.
